ReaderxSherlock - Dream
by xGirlinaBoxx
Summary: Sherlock is up to his experiments again but this time it takes him somewhere he never thought possible. Meanwhile you travel to London and are faced with the most interesting man you've ever met. Rated T just because of murder crime scene
1. Chapter 1

You sigh as you toss your bag onto the bad and lay next to it. It was tiring enough flying all the way to London in one day, but after spending an extra hour at the airport searching for your suitcase only to find that it didn't make the flight, you could hardly stand let alone stay awake. You would have been fine with staying at home if it wasn't for your aunt. She is the whole reason you came to England.

There is a convention this week in London and your aunt practically dragged you to the airport with her. You love her but only enough to go with her. Your were lucky to get separate rooms at the hotel.

You roll onto your back and stare up at the ceiling. You can't exactly do anything else without the rest of your luggage. You might as well just shut your eyes and fall asleep...

As you close your eyes you imagine a grand hall with massive pillars that seem to stretch all the way to the clouds. At the other end of the room hear a stringed instrument pouring out its majestic melody. The music reminds you of your older brother who would play his violin every night by his bedroom window. The beautiful tune would lull you to sleep on the nights you couldn't find any.

As you walk farther toward the music you find the source to be a tall, slender man gliding the bow in his hand across the strings of a wooden violin. You become mesmerized by the melody and would have continued to be if you hadn't realized an important fact of the situation: You aren't imagining the violin or the man playing it.

Your eyes snap open and dash around the room as you sit up from the bed. Finally they rest upon the same man you saw earlier, silently swaying to the tune of his violin.

The wood of the instrument sparkles in the blue moonlight as the bow flows across the strings, sending its sonata streaming in the room and gracing past your ears. The man himself is just as mysterious and elegant as the music he is performing.

From what you can see in the dim light the man is wearing a dark coat that reaches down past his knees and the collar of it rising to the height of his jaw. His hair is an almost black shade of brown that waves and spirals around his head.

Suddenly he stops playing, turns and stares at you as if to say: _You interrupted me._ But you hadn't made a single noise since he began.

The first thing you notice about his face are his high, sharp cheekbones. They only accent the placid and stoic look in his silver blue eyes.

"Well?" his smooth, sonorous voice ruptures your thoughts.

"What?" you manage to spit out.

"This is usually the time when a conversation begins." he swings the bow in his hand like a sword as he speaks. "I started, you continue. Isn't that how it works?"

You try to wrap your mind around the situation as the man continues eyeing you with a very supercilious look. You thought when you entered this room you were alone. But if that is true, how did this man get in? No open window or door. It's as if he walked through the wall!

But why is he in your hotel room in the first place? If he wanted something he would have taken it. He wouldn't break into someone's room just to play his violin...would he?

"How did you get in here?" you ask sounding calmer than most people would in this kind of situation.

"Ah, an American. This should be fun. The last American I met I threw out a window." he says as a slight smirk forms at the corner of his lips, completely ignoring your question.

You blink at what he said but let your face remain emotionless. He will _not_ be allowed to intimidate _you_.

Maybe he would answer a different question.

"Why are you here?" you ask while standing. "I can call the authorities."

"But you won't, will you?" he says as he takes a step toward you. "Because if something were to go wrong, you'd be able to take care of it yourself. Wouldn't you, Agent?"

You're caught off guard by his last sentence. How does he know you're an FBI agent?! Who is this man?

"H-how-"

"And, obviously, you're not here for anything work related. Otherwise you would have been gripping your gun by now and possess your suitcase." he steps toward you again and you find that he's at least three inches taller that you. You try to ignore the obvious heighth difference and return his stare with a glare as he continues.

"If you had taken a private plane you would have been able to keep track of your case but because you flew publicly it was out of your reach." he places his hands behind his back, still holding his violin and bow in each fist. "But you would have preferred not to fly at all and just stay home if it wasn't for your 'plus one'."

"Okay, how did-"

"I know you didn't travel alone?" he finishes for you. "It was quite blatant, actually. Judging by your clothes and jewelry you have a more 'modern' taste so why would you have _that_?" he says as he points his bow at a large satchel in the corner of the room. "Obviously not yours and you're not the type who would steal something like that so you most likely carried if for someone, probably someone you knew and traveled with."

You blink at the auburn bag as you begin to recollect your memories. He was right, it isn't yours, it belongs to your aunt. You'd carried her bag for her because she had a lot to haul around already and you didn't have anything, other that your own bag. You were so tired you forgot to give it back to her and unconsciously threw it into the room.

"Now the question is: Who owns the bag? It couldn't be your mother's because she would've stayed with you in this room no matter how much you dislike her. It couldn't be your grandmother's because, by your age, she's currently either dead or dying. And it certainly wouldn't be a friend's because it would be in better condition if they bought it purposely for the older look. It couldn't be an older sister's, either. You would have shared a room with both. Therefore it must belong to your aunt who you refused to stay in the same room with but willingly traveled to a different country with. Am I wrong?"

You shake your head and stand, gaping at the man as he continues talking at the speed of thought. you barely keep up with what he's saying as he goes on telling other details of your life as if you are an open book. He even tells you how you slept on the plane!

"What are you? Some sort of spy? Computer hacker? How do you know so much about me? Who _are_ you?"

His expression turns cold until he speaks, his voice deeper than before. "My name is Sherlock Holmes."

"Okay, _Sherlock_ (odd name), I'm (first/name) (last/name). But that still doesn't tell me how you know so much about me."

"I don't _know_ you. I _observed_ you and deduced my answers." he states matter-of-factly.

You lean back on your heels in astonishment. He got all that by just _observing_ you?! This Sherlock Holmes amazes you every time he opens his mouth. Could someone really be that intelligent?

"Oh, I guess I should tell you how and why I'm here since you're so eager for explanation." he disrupts your thoughts, once again.

You straighten, awaiting his next sentence. Finally this man is going to give you some answers.

"This is a dream."

You would have doubled over in laughter had he not said it so seriously. But you do not hide the grin that widens across your face.

"You expect me to believe that?" you scoff.

"You want me to prove it? Fine. Look at your hands."

You comply, reluctantly, and bite back a scream as your eyes meet the flesh that _can not_ be your hand. In the space between your thumb and index finger is a _sixth_ digit protruding out from the gap. But it isn't just the extra finger that shocks you, but that your entire hand looks deformed. It's as if someone painted your hand onto your wrist and smeared it in mid-air.

You glance back up for the askew image, filled with more questions for Sherlock, but as you do you find you're not in the hotel room anymore. Instead you are standing at the edge of a rushing waterfall. You feel a chill run up your spine as you're misted by the cool liquid of the fall. Even without the water it's a cold night. You wish you had your scarf.

"Beautiful isn't it?" the baritone voice makes you jump. You turn to face its owner as he continues speaking. "It's always been one of my favorites, the Reichenbach Fall. Not too b-"

"**What is wrong with my hand?!**" you interrupt Sherlock with a shout as you raise your deformed hand.

He drops his shoulders and gives an irritated sigh. "I thought you'd be smart enough to know what that means."

You tilt your head to the side and he answers your unspoken request for information.

"The easiest way to tell you're dreaming is by looking at your hands. _When_ you're dreaming, one of your hands is always deformed in some way. Whether it be an extra finger, complete distortion of the image, or both combined." he lifts his left hand, no longer carrying his violin or bow. "You see? To you my hand is perfectly fine but _I_ see a sixth finger emerging from here." he says as he pinches the air beside a clearly empty space on his hand.

He could be lying to you. Just trying to amaze you so you'll go along with whatever he's planning. But no matter how much you hate to admit it, it is working. Everything this man, Sherlock Holmes, does and says is astounding. From the way he plays the violin to how he deduced almost everything about you. Nothing he does ever bores you.

But back to the situation at hand [*snicker*], he was right. Nothing is out of the ordinary below his wrist. Does that mean that _your_ hand also looks normal to everyone but yourself? But you can grab the extra digit. You can **feel** it.

"So you can't see this?" you ask as you squeeze the sixth finger.

He steps over and swipes his hand directly _through_ your finger. You just stare in disbelief as he retracts his hand.

_But you're __**holding**__ it!_

"Now that you know you are dreaming," Sherlock continues. "it is easier to wake yourself up. Most people do this by jumping from a tall height or killing themselves. Both actions increase their heart rate, resulting in an abrupt end to the dream. When you're dreaming you must stay calm if you want it to continue. Too much excitement-"

Suddenly you lose your footing and slip over the edge of the waterfall. You are powerless to save yourself until your wrist is grasped into a firm grip by a sudden outstretched hand.

"-and you'll wake up." he finishes.

You hang there, motionless, just staring at each other until finally he pulls you up and lifts you onto the rocky ledge. That definitely spiked your pulse, but not enough to cause you to awake, evidently.

"So if I'm dreaming, you're just a figment of my imagination. Telling me things that I already know deep in my subconscious." you ponder to him after straightening your jacket.

A small grin tugs at the corner of his lips. "No, I am just as much my own person as you are yours. And before you ask, 'Then how are you in my dream?' I am here because you made eye contact with me earlier today, thus allowing me entrance into your dream."

He takes your confused look as a gesture to proceed explaining. "Each day you are met with a countless number of people and each person you see appears in your dream the following night without you being aware of it. People you make eye contact with often play a more important role in your dream than just as an extra figure in the background. So one day I wondered if a person could gain access to another's dream if they had locked eyes with each other that day. This stimulated my curiosity of dreams and I began practicing lucid dreaming and researched anything I thought was of use to me. All of which led to this where I perfected my theory and turned it into fact. But don't think yourself so special, you just happened to be the one person I remembered making eye contact with today."

You can't keep your jaw from dropping. It all seems unbelievable and yet the look in his eyes and the way he said it convinces you he is telling the truth.

"What do you do, then?" you ask now truly wanting to know. "Are you a professor? Scientist? Doctor? Philosopher?"

"I'm a detective. A consulting detective to be more specific." Sherlock answers with his head held slightly higher than before.

"I've never heard of a 'consulting detective'."

"That's because I'm the only one in the world, I invented the job. When the police arrive at their depth, which is always, they consult me."

He helps the police!? This could turn out to be a good dream after all. Just a week ago the FBI stopped all investigation on a case. They had had the perfect suspect but she also had the perfect alibi. Maybe he could do what your team couldn't and solve it.


	2. Chapter 2

"Would you like a little practice, then?"

He pauses for a few moments then says; "Don't bore me."

You smirk and begin stating the crime. "A husband and wife are celebrating the opening of their new orphanage. The husband is shot dead in his bedroom while the wife makes the announcement to the party guests. There is blood on the floor of the bathroom and on the corner of the table next to the bed." As you speak the waterfall disappears and is replaced with the exact scene of the murder. "Both blood samples were tested and belong to the victim's wife. The wife claims she had a nosebleed before giving her speech but that still doesn't explain how her blood got on the table. The blood obviously came from the murderer when they fought with the victim. But the wife has a solid alibi since she had more than fifty people watching her when the gun was fired. So, who is the murderer?"

Sherlock kneels beside the body and examines every inch of it with very keen eyes. He then stands and moves to the blood on the corner of the night stand. He pulls a small, square magnifying glass from the pocket of his pea-jacket and inspects the stain further. He then stoops down and _smells_ the blood. He steps over to the other splatter and repeats the short process.

"Care if I run a few tests on the evidence?" he asks while rising from the floor.

You shake your head as he begins collecting the puddles of blood into test tubes.

The scene changes again and you're surrounded by, what seems, thousands of bottles of chemicals resting on white shelves that stretch around the room. You pick up a flask containing a peculiar, green liquid when suddenly that all too familiar, emotionless voice halts your movement. "Don't touch anything. This may be only a dream but I'd like to keep everything in tact." He never even glances up from his current experiment.

You carefully set the glass back in its place and are thankful you did when Sherlock shouts in a flurry of excitement; "Yes! I was correct. The blood from the table contains anti-Rh antibodies while the blood from the bathroom does not. Does the wife have any children?"

You almost don't hear his question after recovering from shock of his sudden outburst.

"Y-yes," you stammer. "a nine-month old son."

"Then I believe I have this case solved."

"Please explain." you gesture.

"Obviously if the couple were opening a new orphanage and celebrating with many guests they must be quite rich. The money, however, must belong to the husband otherwise there wouldn't be a need to kill him. Once the father is dead all money would go to the child. The reason only one of the traces of blood contains antibodies is because only one if from the wife, the other belongs to her twin. Her twin posed as her for the party so the wife would have the perfect alibi to commit the murder. What she wasn't expecting was her twin having a nosebleed before speaking to the guests and the husband realizing the threat to him before she could fire her gun. Therefore the wife is in fact the murderer and her twin an accomplice."

You never even _thought_ of checking for antibodies in the blood. You stand, wide-eyed at Sherlock until you manage to say the one line that keeps repeating in your mind; "That was amazing."

You can't help but notice the small surprise that flickers across his features. He then attempts to hide it with a smirk. "The brain works more when it is asleep than awake. I think this was a great practice."

"Even still it was impressive."

"You really think so?"

"Yes, I've never met anyone _near_ as intelligent as you. Not just how you solved this murder but also all your deductions you made earlier and _especially_ how you managed to get into _my dreams_. You are a genius!"

You expect to see even the faintest hint of pride or joy in him but instead are met with a more grave than grateful expression.

"People don't normally call me that." he says as he digs his hands into the deep pockets of his pea coat.

"And what do they normally call you?" you question, surprised anyone couldn't recognize this man's intelligence.

"Freak."

You both stand in silence as the word seeps into you and steals all words from you lips. You are completely speechless.

Suddenly the quiet is broken by a single clap created by Sherlock's gloved hands. As you look around you find you've returned to the waterfall.

"Well this has been fun but I think it's time to end this." he announces.

He steps so close to you that you have to raise your head to meet his gaze. He really is taller than you. You sense the blood rushing to your face and you feel embarrassed. You then see something that puzzles you. He stares into your eyes and looks as if he's seen something that confuses him.

You don't have time to react further before he grabs your shoulders and throws both of you off of the Fall.

"Laters!" he winks as his entire body shatters into millions of crystals. The white jewels shimmer as they vanish into nothing.

Your hair whips and sails around you until you land with a _thud_ agains the carpet of the hotel room. You fell out of bed.

You prop yourself up on your elbows and search for a clock. 8:04. You collapse back onto the floor with an exhausted sigh. At least you slept through the night.

"Oh, (f/n), what are you doing on the floor?" a gentle voice speaks from above you. It was your aunt. You had forgotten that you gave her your room key.

"Good morning, (aunt's/name)." you yawn, picking yourself off the carpet.

"I just came in to make sure you were awake." she smiles. "And collect my purse. I knocked but you must not have heard me. We leave in a half-hour for the convention. I'll be down in the lobby once you're ready." She walks to the door and says before she leaves; "Oh, and the airport called to say your suitcase just flew in. We can pick up on our way back to the hotel. And you might want to wear something warm. It's a little chilly outside."

She quietly closes the door behind her as she leaves and you begin changing your clothes. You're wiggling into a pair of jeans when your eyes fix upon the window. Your mind travels back to your dream. Back to Sherlock Holmes. He really was an interesting man. And a charming one to say the least. You wonder if you'll ever see him again. Dream or not. You dismiss the thought and try to focus your attention on other things. You can't get your hopes up.

Suddenly you remember the murder case. You whisk out your laptop from your bag and open up your e-mail. You quickly type a message to your Director back in America explaining the solution to the case and hit the _send_ button as you leap toward the door.

You place your hand on the door handle and glance one last time at the spot where Sherlock had played his violin so majestically. You tighten your scarf before finally striding out of the room.  
**Sherlock's POV**  
Her pupils dilated. In that brief moment before I pulled her over the edge, they grew 40% larger. Not out of fear but of something else... I've heard of "love at first sight" but of course I've never believed in such fairy tales. Only an idiot would trust something so illogical.

But that still begs the question: How? How could someone gain such a feeling in such a short amount of time? Especially when nothing of that intimacy had occurred. Had it?

After I accomplished what I almost thought impossible and entered another person's dream, I had one more thing I needed to know: Was I still able to do everything I could in my own lucid dream? I tested this by attempting to create something. Something simple. Something I knew every detail of. My violin. It flashed into my hands with less effort than I expected needing.

I then searched the room for the person whose dream I had let myself into.

Asleep. She was _asleep_. In a dream. **Asleep**. Dreaming inside of a dream.

I contemplated slapping her with my bow but I knew if I did she wouldn't cooperate with me later. She would take it more as a threat than a gesture. If I woke her using my violin it would lower the chance of her seeing me as a danger and waking up (from the lucid dream). So I did just that and played until she awoke.

The following conversation went better than I could have ever expected. She, (f/n), was quite intelligent and managed to stay perfectly calm in the presence of a stranger. And she was a FBI agent, no less. At least we both shared an interest in crime.

But I never would have thought she'd present me with a case to solve. And a clever one it was but proved simple in the end.

Then she proceeded to praise me for all I had done; even though it wasn't much to be amazed by. She said I was a genius. No one's ever called me anything near that. And she seemed genuinely surprised at that.

I entered the dream with a gun incase the person I was faced with proved to be dull and I needed to wake myself . But I never even thought about the weapon as I began speaking with her.

And like all good things, they must come to an end. I readied myself to throw us both off of the waterfall but I was stopped by her (e/c) eyes. There was no possible way she could have formed those kind of emotions so soon. So why was it staring right at me?

I decline to believe that I shall never understand "love" but I choose not to explore the emotion. For love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things.

However, would it be so wrong to see her again?  
**Your POV**  
You smile as you watch your aunt awe over the jewelry on display at a stand. It annoys you how many people are surrounding you but you have to stay cheerful for your aunt's sake. She was the one who brought and _paid_ for you to come to this convention with her. The least you could do is act pleasant.

You aren't interested in the particular adornment and begin looking around the building out of boredom. Suddenly you lock eyes with someone. It was Sherlock! He gives you an obviously over exaggerated smile and waves as you wave in reply.

Your aunt lifts her gaze from the table. "Who's that?" she asks with a grin.

You turn to her for a moment but when you glance back toward Sherlock he's vanished into the crowd. "Oh, just a...friend."

Looks like you are going to see Sherlock Holmes again. Dream or not.


	3. Announcement!

THIS STORY HAS BEEN CONTINUED IN A DIFFERENT STORY. IF YOU WISH TO FOLLOW THE CONTINUATION OF THIS STORY, FOLLOW MY OTHER FIC _ReaderxSherlock - STONE._ Thanks! :3


End file.
